


The Wood

by Arcwin, Beta_Jawn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Fae, Angst with a Happy Ending, Creepy, Dark fic, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Fae are awful, Interspecies Sex, John Is So Done, John Watson is Scottish, M/M, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, POV Third Person Limited, Rimming, Scotland, Scottish Character, Sherlock is a Brat, and totally has a beard, ethereal orgasms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-10-04 19:39:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17310608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcwin/pseuds/Arcwin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beta_Jawn/pseuds/Beta_Jawn
Summary: There are many reasons to stay out of the wood. John knew them all, yet he still crossed the treeline each morning as the grey-pink fingers of dawn crept across the sky.John Watson is a weathered, older Scotsman who has settled in the Highlands to raise cattle. He leads a solitary life most days, though near his humble cabin is the edge of the forest. Whispered tales circulate amongst the Highland folk about the wood.This is a different type of story than I usually write. The style is reminiscient of "I Could Try," though this one will have a much more creepy and ominous undertone to it.Update: re: the new archive warning tag--there is some Fae magic that happens which puts a big fat question mark at whether John can give consent. It's been brought to my attention that my tags needed updating due to chapter 4. The rest of this story does not revolve around the sex that occurs in that chapter. You can skip it if you aren't interested in it, and still get the creepy fae AU vibe.For anyone who read before this warning, apologies for any triggers.For now, complete. Artwork posted 3/1/19!! (Ch 6 and 7)





	1. Chapter 1

There are many reasons to stay out of the wood.

John knew them all, yet he still crossed the treeline each morning as the grey-pink fingers of dawn crept across the sky. The air was crisp and still, just shy of biting as it pricked the back of his throat and pierced his lungs on his long morning walks. Crystalline dew drops clung frozen to every surface, sparkling as the sun caught them just right. Spring was on the horizon, but the sleepy Scottish countryside seemed uninterested in participating.

Boots crunching on the frost covered ground, John again entered the wood and marveled at the way the air stopped moving. Tall birch trees lined the edge of the forest, their white papery bark peeling and curling around their trunks like holiday ribbon. He resisted the urge to pull at one as he walked by, thrusting his fists deeper into his pockets. Skirting the edge of a small circle of stones, he plunged further into the forest, his hot breath leaving puffs of condensation in the air behind him.

As the trees grew more dense, his thoughts did the opposite, disconnecting from each other until he was floating in a fog. He likened it to one too many pints without the threat of a dreaded hangover in the morning. The haze was a pleasant one, giving him reprieve from the typical swirl of visions from the war and his less-than-perfect life as a young man. He was old now, and looking backwards brought little more than regret. He welcomed the effect of the woods on his psyche. He didn't bother questioning it.

The deeper he traveled, the more the outside world seemed to dissolve, replaced by dancing shadows in the corner of his eye and the rustling of underbrush behind him. He knew the reasons to stay out of the wood. Any normal Highland farmer would have turned back long ago, but here he stayed. The shivers down his spine were enough of a warning for most.

Not John, though.

Instead of fear, he was filled with hope that perhaps the stories might be true.

And yet, as he emerged into the bright morning sunshine having somehow ending back up on the path he started on (despite never having consciously turned around), he sighed.

_Not today._

Perhaps not ever, he thought with a disappointed frown.

The gravel of the path crunched beneath his thick, military issue boots as he strode away from the wood, knowing better than to look back at it. The mist that surrounded the treeline rose up from the sparse, dead grass and weeds at the edge of the copse like steam from a freshly-brewed cuppa, obscuring the trunks of the trees and anything that might be watching the man as he walked home.

As John approached his small farm, two black-tipped ears appeared along the fenceline, bobbing as the portly cat made his way over in greeting. Purring heartily, the Maine Coon bumped his head into John’s leg.

“Mycroft,” John commented quietly, reaching down to run his fingertips in the cat’s long, soft fur. The cat chirped his response, the sound mismatched to his size, and ran off towards their cabin, hoping for a second morning meal.

The man watched his cat, chuckling to himself as the animal waddled around with his low-hanging belly. In the distance, the sun crept higher in the sky, casting long shadows off his small herd of Highland cattle while they grazed in the nearby pasture. He sighed and followed Mycroft into the cabin.

* * *

“John! Guid tae see ye!”

“Aye, same, Brodie. I’ll hae a pint, if ye please,” John answered, plopping down on the barstool next to his neighbor. The barkeep set down the heavy glass in front of the man with a wink, wiping the spilt liquid with a towel before moving on. In the corner, a jukebox played some heavy rock music, filling the silence between the two men as they slugged back the cool lager.

After signaling for another fill, Brodie cleared his throat and asked, “Hoo hae ye bin?” while scratching at his scruffy, auburn beard.

John nodded, taking a long pull from the stein in his hand before answering, “Braw, braw. Ye?” He eyed his companion, watching for signs of concern at his obvious lie, but Brodie had been at the pub well before him and was several pints into his evening already.

“Och, ye ken. Sam as aye,” the man replied with a grunt. “Damn!” he shouted, a hand flying up to gesture rudely at the television in the corner. “Ye see thes?” he asked John, cheeks reddening in rage. Their local rugby team was losing to a new one from London. John didn’t care, but Brodie clearly did.

Shrugging at his companion, John drained the rest of his beer and caught the barkeep’s attention for another. Brodie huffed to himself and purposely turned towards John, done with the game on the television.

_Ask him._

The whisper curled around John’s ear, tendrils tickling him as he startled and looked for the source. Seeing none, he nodded at his newly refreshed beer and tapped his fingers on the counter.

 **_Ask_ ** _him._

Again, the voice crept up the back of his neck, sending tingles along his scalp and raising goosebumps on his arms. Shaking his head to clear the hallucination, he picked up the stein in front of him and raised the cold glass to his lips. As the liquid touched his tongue, fire shot down into his throat, burning him from the inside. He slammed the glass down with a shout, his free hand coming up to clasp around his throat.

There was no heat there, no fire, yet it felt raw and tender to the touch. Glancing at Brodie, who was staring in surprise, John took a breath and made the decision.

“Dae ye ever gang intae th' wuid?”

His friend stopped, body going rigid as he blinked owlishly at John. “Whit dae ye mean?” he asked, voice dropping to a whisper. “Nae a body goes intae th’ wuid.” Bringing a hand to rest on John’s forearm, he leaned forward to peer into the man’s face. “Nae a body.”

Breathing slowly out through pursed lips, John shook his head.

Brodie nodded and turned back towards the bar, pleased with his friend’s agreement, only John wasn’t agreeing. He didn’t bother with the argument, instead finishing his second pint quickly and ordering a third.

He looked forward to morning.

* * *

Silence.

That is, except for the crunch of the frozen ground beneath his boots. The deeper he went, the more he was enveloped in the thick, still air of the wood. No breeze, no movement, no life.

Just John.

The dark trees towered over him, their craggy branches spreading like veins along the silvery skin of the late winter sky. His breath fogged in front of his face, trailing along his cheeks as he kept delving deeper and deeper into the wood. Dragging his hunting knife against a nearby tree trunk, he scored the bark, just as he had done every ten feet since entering the forest. The wind whistled above him, pulling the trees against each other so their branches scraped and scratched. John’s stomach gurgled, a reminder of his hasty and unfulfilling breakfast that morning, but he shook his head and ignored it. He had more important things to focus on.

His thoughts drifted lazily in his mind, pulling apart at the seams the way they always did when he walked in the wood. Somewhere in the dark crevices he fought to ignore he heard Brodie warning him, insisting that _nae a body goes intae th’wuid._

 _Nae a body_ ** _except_** **_me_** _._

Glancing at his watch, he noticed the time with a leap of his heart. He had yet to recross any of the marked trees on his journey this morning, and yet he’d been in the forbidden forest longer than he’d ever done before. The silence around him was deafening, though he barely noticed it as he plodded along, hands thrust deep into his jacket pockets to keep warm. His bones ached with the chill in the air, for this was a colder morn than they’d had in Northern Scotland since the dead of winter. His leg reminded him with each step of his warm hearth at home, the fog in his head slowly deepening until he could barely string together a simple sentence.

Behind him, he heard the crack of twigs and leaves beneath tentative steps, and he fought against the gasp in the back of his throat. Blinking, he continued onward, senses suddenly much more alert since the intrusion. His bowie knife slid easily from its sheath with barely a sound, and he raised his arm up to mark the next tree along his path. As the knife hovered less than a centimeter from the thin bark of the birch tree next to him, his arm suddenly fell numb. The joints locked in place, holding the limb perpendicular from his body, while his wrist bent unnaturally backwards until the knife fell from his cold, lifeless fingers. A wrenching, shooting pain ran like electricity into his elbow while his wrist continued to twist, catching at its furthest point. The muscles in his arm bulged, pulling a pained grunt from him as he clawed at his arm with his free hand.

“Stop!” he shouted, fighting against the invisible force to keep his wrist from popping loose.

Above him, a fierce howling gust shook the trees, clattering the naked branches against each other in warning. He could nearly make out a word in the wind, though he shook his head and told himself he imagined it. Another gust whipped by his ears, biting the exposed flesh of his neck with its icy fangs while snaking down past the collar of his coat. Again, he heard a word.

**_Leave_** **.**

No, he imagined it. _Must’ve_.

“Did you?” A voice like silk and venom, full of contempt, slithered into his ears, wiping his mind completely blank and freeing him from the torture in his arm. The words floated, surrounding him as they enveloped him in dissonant feelings of comfort and panic.

_Nae a body goes intae th’wuid._

“Except you, mortal,” the voice continued, again wrapping itself around his thoughts and squeezing the life from them.

John considered turning to look behind him, but he knew the stories. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut, breath whistling sharply through his nostrils as he awaited his fate. The air around him danced, pulling at his trouser legs and picking up the hem of his coat playfully. He heard the snap of a nearby twig, barely audible above the pounding of his blood in his ears, and held his breath. The pain in his wrist returned, the fog in his mind from the disembodied voice clearing as his arm wrenched a final time. He let out a final shout, his raspy yell echoing off the nearby trees.

All at once, the unknown force released his arm, which fell stiffly to his side while he collapsed to his knees on the path. The damp of the rotten leaves slowly soaked through the knees of his trousers, sending a chill up his thighs as he cradled his injured wrist. Silent tears streamed out of his icy blue eyes, the warmth a welcome shock on his cold-numb and ruddy cheeks. Letting them slide slowly open, he cocked his head to side and glanced behind him.

He saw nothing, as he expected.

Still, he _hoped_.

Returning his attention to his hand, he examined it for fractures and determined it bruised and nothing more. A threat, then.

_Stay out of the wood._

Planting his hands on the forest floor, he rolled back onto his haunches, squatting for a moment and looking up at the tree branches above him. A small murder of crows took flight, launching from the top of a tall white pine while calling loudly to each other. He counted them--seven in total--and pushed himself up to stand. After brushing his trouser legs free from dirt, he reached down to collect his knife and turned to follow his marks back out of the wood.

* * *

A week passed before John entered the forest again. This time, he left his knife at home, though alarms sang in his head and he felt its absence more than he ever noticed it banging against his thigh in the past. His sleep had been fitful the entire week, full of nightmares of crows and faceless, bizarre creatures that strapped him to the trees and flayed him open. He woke each morning in a cold sweat, face hot and hair matted to his forehead. Whispers that felt like snakes slithering on his skin surrounded him, their tendrils crawling into his ears until his heart pounded and head throbbed. The seventh day he awoke in such a panic that he immediately yanked on his boots over the thick wool socks he wore to sleep, tying sloppy bows in the laces as he hopped towards the door. Mycroft stared at him from the floor in front of the ember-filled hearth, head cocked to the side in confusion at John’s impatience.

Staring at his cat, John felt a pang of guilt and walked over to him, reaching down to run his fingers through his thick fur. Then, he chucked a new log on the fire with a small handful of kindling, blowing on it until it caught. A scoop of food in Mycroft’s dish, another loving pet, and the man pulled on his coat to leave.

“Mrow?”

_Slam._

He stopped short of the black trees, looking up at the branches high above him. There was no wind this day, the air an eerie calm compared with the howling gusts that had been rushing over the open plains of the highlands for the entire week beforehand. John had chased after more than a few of his belongings as the wind swept them up and threw them against his cattle fence. The shift in the weather seemed to coincide with his decision to reenter the wood, though he refused to believe it was connected.

Taking a deep breath, the man squared his shoulders and stepped forward, breaching the border to the copse. Twenty feet in front of him was the small circle of stones he usually side-stepped, but this time he strode directly up to it, stopping with his toes nearly touching the stones. He glanced left, then right, and saw what he always saw--nothing but trees.

He squeezed his eyes shut and stepped into the circle.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The air flew from John’s lungs as if he had been punched in the gut. A hollow ache filled his torso as he gasped, unable to catch his breath. Heat scorched his throat, burning like molten iron down his esophagus and filling his lungs with lead. Sinking to his knees, his head hung between his shaking shoulders. He chased breath after breath until finally, the air came easier to him and he felt his chest expand. The burn subsided, leaving spasms in his torso while he quivered on the forest floor.

Above him, a crow called to its mate, which responded in kind. The wind pulled at the branches of the trees, a harsh whistle that reminded him of where he was.

The wood.

John pulled his eyes open, the lids sticking to each other as if he had been caught in a deep sleep. Unease settled in his abdomen, making him queasy as he looked slowly around him. The world was a blur as he blinked the haze from his eyes. Dense fog settled in his head, pulling his thoughts adrift as he surveyed his surroundings. Around him sat the circle of stones at the beginning of the forest path. He was shocked to find himself in the center of it. Usually he avoided such places, believing the lore of the town more than he’d like to admit.

Why was he in the stone circle? How did he get there? He _didn't_ come into the woods. He _didn't_ _want_ to be in the woods, not after the last time.

As he planted his hands to the forest floor, there was a flash of shadow in the corner of his eye, darting behind him. He turned quickly to look, and found nothing.

“Oy!” he shouted, whirling around in frustration. Seeing only trees, he sighed, plopping down onto the forest floor.

Blinking, he looked down at the stones around him, confused. With a shake of his head, he rolled to his side and pushed to stand, ignoring the second flash of shadow in his periphery.

_Naethin’._

“Wrong,” a gasping, whispering voice breathed into his ear. He swatted at it, feeling the sting of his fingertips against his earlobe as he flinched. Whipping his head around, he searched the trees for the source of his torment, and found only the bleak, stiff wood. Pulling the icy winter air in through his nose, he breathed and stepped out of the stone circle, the toe of his boot hovering above the forest floor.

John’s heart hammered behind his ribs, thumping loudly in his ears and making his head throb. A flash from his nightmare that morning filled the space behind his eyes, making him shiver as goosebumps fled down his spine.

 _Dae it, Watson_. _Dunna be a coward._

The forest floor outside the stone circle was unremarkable. John braced for his departure from the eerie place, expecting to have the wind knocked out of him again...or something _worse_. Willing his heart to stop racing, he inhaled a shaky breath and straightened his back. With his eyes squeezed shut, he let his foot fall to the forest floor outside the circle.

Nothing happened.

He eased his eyes open and looked down the path through the birch trees. Scanning for signs of his previous markings, he was unsurprised to find none engraved in the bark. Whoever...or _whatever_ held him captive that day seemed particularly concerned about the trees. Or did they? John found the more time he spent in the wood, the more uncertain he was.

He stepped completely out of the stone circle and stood stock still, surprised.

Perhaps the stories were just that-- _stories._ Nothing more.

The gurgle of his stomach brought him back from the brink of doubt, leading him to turn away from the darkened depths of the wood toward the grey dawn flooding the Highland countryside. In the distance, he could make out the blurred shapes of his cattle as they moved sluggishly across the bleak field, searching for scraps of green in the picked over earth. He walked towards his home, hoping he still had some steel cut oats left in the tin.

* * *

Reaching for his doorknob, John paused and stared down at his left hand. It was floating in front of his door, though the handle was on the opposite side. Blinking, he frowned and looked down at his shoes, then brought his hand over to open the door. It clicked and swung into the cabin, a long _creak_ filling the quiet space. John stepped inside and glanced over at the fireplace. The log he had thrown on it before leaving for the wood was burned to embers, bright and beautiful red orbs glowing in the hearth. Cocking his head to the side, he shrugged to himself. He hadn’t thought he’d been gone long enough, but perhaps it was an extra dry log. On the hearthstones in front of the fireplace laid Mycroft, purring in his sleep as he rolled onto his side.

The man blinked as he stared at his cat, eyes following the grey-black stripes and whorls in his long, shaggy hair. Mycroft rolled again, this time landing flat on his back with his legs splayed. The cat’s belly lolled to one side, settling on the floor as he continued to purr in his sleep. John smiled to himself, then removed his jacket to hang next to the door.

It fell to the floor, sliding down the wall in a clump. John frowned as he stared at it, and his stomach growled its reminder.

 _Breakfast_.

He stooped to pick it up and tossed it over the back of his chair as he headed to his pantry, eyes searching for his steel cut oats. The tin was hidden behind a bag of sugar, and with a shake he determined it had just enough oats to provide him a hearty serving. As he filled the kettle, there was another flash in the corner of his eye. He blinked to clear it, and sighed, weary.

Behind him, he heard the low, whining growl of Mycroft, then a hiss. He turned to stare at the cat. He was peering into John's darkened bedroom, his hackles stiff and ears flattened onto his head.

“Mycroft,” John said quietly, setting down the kettle. The cat ignored him, crouching as it crept backwards away from the doorway. His nails scraped along the slate hearth as he slid across the floor, tail tucked low behind him. A skitter from the bedroom drew John's attention, pulling his gaze from the cat.

John blinked.

The kettle whistled, startling them both.

John didn't remember putting it on the stove.

His stomach growled again, so he grabbed a bowl from the dish drainer, set it on the table, and dumped the remaining oats into it. The steam from the kettle rose in front of his face as he poured out the boiling water, covering the oats. A few floated to the top, swirling around the bowl as the water began seeping into them. His chair scraped across the wooden floor as he scooted himself closer to the table, inhaling the familiar scent of the cooking cereal.

Outside, the wind clattered the tree branches against the side of the cabin, their long fingers dragging against the window pane as they were flung to and fro. He glanced at the window, expecting to see a darkened sky with an oncoming storm. The ache in his leg was worse this day--a sign of the impending change. Yet, as he stared out onto the highlands, John’s unfocused eyes saw nothing of note. A grey, winter sky that fell like heavy curtains down onto the horizon, meeting the grey earth as it wandered off across the plains. He sighed. This winter would never end, it seemed.

The soft, warm scent of cooked oats drifted into his nose, and he returned to the bowl in front of him. His mouth watered, salivary glands excited at the meal, and he grabbed the spoon.

“Mrow!” Mycroft interrupted, waddling over to his chair. The cat pushed his head into John’s leg, then reached up to rest his front paws on the side of the chair. John set his spoon down and smiled at the cat, reaching a hand down to run his fingers through the soft coat of the animal. Mycroft purred, his eyes sliding shut, and he rose to meet the palm of John’s hand. After a few luxurious pets, John returned to his breakfast.

As the spoon was about to enter his mouth, there was another interruption.

“Mrow!!”

The cat leapt onto the table, a surprising feat given his size, and walked straight up to John to peer into his face.

“Oy, gie aff th’ table!” John exclaimed, staring at his cat in disbelief.

Mycroft cocked his head to the side, narrowing his yellow eyes.

John peered at his cat, and the fog in his head cleared for just a moment. Mycroft didn’t have yellow eyes--he had blue ones. It was what drew John to the cat in the first place. Blue eyes, just like his own, set in that weathered, grey face. A mirror for the man who couldn’t stand to look at himself anymore.

“Whit is thes?” He swallowed, feeling suddenly nauseous. Everything was wrong. He looked to the left, and began seeing everything he had been ignoring since he woke up in the stone circle in the wood. The wallpaper was the wrong color, but only off by a few shades. There was a long, deep rut in the table top from one of his hunting knives, but it was across from where it ought to be. Even the lamp over his reading chair was wrong, the flickering bulb left on. John would never be so careless as to leave a light on when he wasn’t using it.

He shook his head and pushed away from the table, the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach churning with the threat of upheaval. Heat crawled up the back of his neck and settled onto his cheeks, making them tingle. Snatching up his coat, he threw it on and fled to the door, again forgetting the doorknob and slamming his knuckles into the hardwood. Cursing, he corrected himself and flung open the door, practically throwing himself out of the house.

The air that met him was warm, warmer than he ever remembered this area of Scotland being, even in the middle of summer. Sweat beaded on his forehead and above his upper lip as he made his way back towards the wood, though he knew not where or what he was fleeing from. His legs needed to move, needed to carry him away from the not-his-house and the not-his-cat.

As he approached the treeline, he was hit with a blast of icy air. He gasped, lungs shocked by the drastic change, and stopped dead in his tracks. There was a clear line between the two temperatures, and he passed his hand back and forth between them.

_He had to leave this place._

**_Now_**.

Shaking his head, he bundled his coat tighter around his quaking core and walked into the forest, striding directly up to the stone circle. Squaring his shoulders, he took one last glance around him at the trees. He was so used to seeing nothing in his time in the forest that he nearly missed the tall, thin figure dressed in rich mahogany leathers standing between two birch trees off to his right.

Blinking, John stood still, suddenly entranced.

_Nae a body goes intae th’ wuid._

Wild black curls fell about the man’s face, a stark contrast to the ivory skin stretched tight over his sharply defined cheekbones and jawline. Piercing blue eyes peered curiously at John as the man cocked his head to the side, a wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. The scotsman felt trapped by the other man’s gaze, their eyes locked as he mirrored his movements. His thoughts drifted apart, the fog he was already so accustomed to flooding his senses and obscuring anything but the otherworldly man in front of him.

His lungs began to burn in his chest, begging for air.

In his daze, John barely realized that he’d stopped breathing the moment he locked eyes with the man. The burning continued, though he couldn’t force himself to care enough to remedy it.

In front of him, the figure took a step forward, eyes narrowing as he moved ever closer to the suffocating scotsman. John felt the scrutiny and wondered what the man thought. For a moment, he considered that perhaps he-- _it?_ \-- wasn’t a man at all. Tingling crept up from his fingertips, the prickly numbness making his hands cold. A heaviness settled into his limbs, dragging his awareness away from the screaming in his chest. The figure kept taking steps towards him, and John could only stare as the blackened stars in his vision grew larger and larger.

The forest spun around him, and the last vestiges of his consciousness ebbed away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning:  
> Suicidal Ideation  
> Depression

“Greg, bide wi’ me!”

_Tay much bluid, tay much tae stop--_

“Greg!”

_Ah cannae dae thes! He’s dyin’!_

“ _Can’t you save him_?” a slimy, slithering voice curled around his earlobe.

John’s hands pressed harder into his dying friend, thick blood gurgling out around them from the bullet wound. Wishing he could swipe at the intrusion, he instead shrugged his shoulder up, hoping to make it go away. Beneath him, Greg squirmed and writhed, face contorted in a scowl as the color drained from his face.

Again the voice licked at his ear, a tickle on the tiniest of hairs on his skin as it purred, “Leave him, then.”

 **“Nae!”** John boomed at the voice, _at the world_ , as he doubled the pressure on Greg’s stomach, eyes darting as he searched around him for something to jam into the wound.

“It _doesn’t_ matter,” it continued, wrapping around his quivering heart.

Growling to himself, the Scotsman ripped off his jacket and bunched it up, pressing it against Greg’s stomach. “ **It matters tae me**!”

Icy fingertips trailed against the back of his neck as the presence shifted to his other side and argued, “ _No_. None of it matters.”

“ **Shut up!** ”

Warm, damp breath washed over his cheek and neck as his molester sighed heavily. “ _No_ ,” the voice murmured again, the deep baritone sending chills up the man’s spine. “I’m right, you know.”

At this, John’s rage overtook him and he whipped his head to the side, glaring. The wild eyed, curly-haired man was crouched next to him, his head again cocked as he stared, unblinking. His eyes shone blue-white like thick, frozen ice on a waterfall--opaque and milky. _Unnatural_. John shrank back as the creature leaned towards him, peering into his face with the same curious expression he wore in the wood.

The wood?

Was he in the wood? He struggled against his dissipating thoughts, grasping clumsily at them like a child trying to catch minnows in a pond. He remembered the stone circle. He remembered Mycroft with his yellow eyes, and he remembered the burning in his chest as he slowly suffocated beneath the penetrating stare of the man next to him now.

Why couldn’t he breathe? What happened? How did he end up here, back with Greg in the deserts of Afghanistan, reliving the very moment his best friend bled out in his hands and died under the scorching sun? He hated it, hated it _all_ , and yet…

_And yet…_

He tore his gaze away from the man and looked back down at his own hands. The jacket was bunched in them still, covered in rusty blotches, but he was no longer pressing into Greg’s stomach. The man was gone, vanished while his attention was diverted.

“Dammit!” John cursed, clutching his jacket in trembling fingers while he looked around him. A harsh, icy wind blew through his hair, ruffling his bangs on his forehead. He scowled and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to understand his competing sensory information. The sun was bright and high above him, baking the skin of his face and pulling sweat from his scalp while his core shivered with the wintry air that blew up the back of his shirt as he crouched.

“I warned you. None of it matters,” the creature next to him commented, his voice petulant and condescending.

The scotsman opened his eyes and glanced sideways, too enraged to look fully at the bizarre being. Sitting back on his haunches, John brought a hand up to scratch at his beard. His conscious thoughts still drifted in and out of his mind, hiding behind smoke and mirrors whenever he tried to pull them together. He shook his head and stood, leaving his bloodied jacket at his feet.

“Tak’ me haem,” he commanded.

Black curls bounced as the creature shook his head. He stood, looming into John’s space, and replied matter-of-factly, “You _wanted_ to come here.”

Leaning away, John squared his shoulders and shook his head. “Nae. Nae loch thes.”

“Don’t lie to me. You _know_ **what** I am. _It doesn’t work._ ”

Bewitched, John stared up into the man’s chalky eyes and swallowed. “Ah dunnae kinn anythin’,” he argued, heart pounding in his ears.

Bringing his face down mere centimetres away from the Scotsman, the creature licked his lips and smiled, revealing sharp canines amidst his gleaming white teeth. John stared up at him, entranced, and felt his body curve up towards the invitation, bending like a sapling in the wind. The man brought his porcelain nose down to brush against John’s cheek, and had John not been so trapped he would have shrank away. Instead, he released his shaky breath through an open mouth and let his eyes slide shut.

When he opened them, he was laying comfortably in his bed at home, flannel sheets soft and warm against his naked body.

John sighed. It was a long, exhausted sigh, full of regret and discomfort. He blinked slowly, licking his lips, and then stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom. His face felt heavy, and his bones ached with exertion and poor weather. Above him, he heard the _tap tap tap_ of the rain on his tin roof, a rhythmic pinging that filled the silence like a clock.

_Tap tap tap._

He sighed again, then let his eyes slide shut. There was a weight on his chest that drowned out even the thudding of his heart, making it difficult to swallow and breathe. His throat was tight, too tight, as he choked around a sob. Bizarre images flashed in his mind of a man-- _not a man_ \--with a head full of dark curls and eyes as white as snow, winding his body around John’s like a boa constrictor, suffocating him while whispering deadly secrets and incantations in his ear. The breath on his skin felt real, _so real_ , and yet here he was, alone in his bed.

John Watson was _afraid_.

He shook his head and rolled onto his side, letting the blankets bunch up at his chest. Gripping a fistful, he buried his face into the down pillow he took from his grandmother’s house all those years ago and scowled, fighting the sting in the corners of his eyes.

He was afraid, but not of the man in the wood. Not of the mysterious events in his house, nor the way he kept losing time. Anyone else would be terrified had they been subjected to such horrors.

_Nae a body goes intae th’ wuid._

John Watson was afraid that it wasn’t real. He feared he was going crazy, imagining the alluring and terrifying creature in the wood as a last ditch resort to give a damn about his life again.

The sobs in his throat finally broke free, erupting from his slack mouth as he shoved his face into the pillow in an effort to stifle the cracked, embarrassing sound coming from his core. His body shook beneath the sheets, muscles spasming as he finally let go of every false wall he had thrown up around this vulnerable, raw part of him. He cried until he could cry no more, and then laid still, staring at the floor.

And then, he slept.

When he woke, his lips were chapped, covered with a thick layer of dry, dead skin. He chewed at his lower lip, peeling a piece off and immediately regretting it as it burned and took too much healthy skin with it. The metallic tang of blood met the tip of his tongue, and he let his eyes slide shut once more. His body shook beneath his blankets, and he remembered that he hadn't made a fire for some time.

He wondered if Mycroft was cold, then reasoned that the cat's thick fur and hefty midsection would keep him warm enough.

The taste in his mouth was awful, a bitterness that wouldn't wash away no matter how many times he swallowed. His stomach growled its frustration with him, and he thought of the oats and doorknob. Would it be the same, now? Was he forever trapped in that parallel world with the wrong cat and the wrong house?

Pressing his trembling fingers together and sandwiching them between his thighs for warmth, he shook his head at this traitorous fantasy.

Grumbling, he brought his knees to his chest and reached out of the cocoon of warmth, shocked at how cold the air felt. He glanced around his bedroom, hoping to see some clothing nearby. His typical trousers and jumper were folded neatly on the chair near the door, with his boots tucked underneath. Steeling himself, he whipped the blankets off and dashed over, yanking everything on as fast as he could without stumbling.

The fabric was warm against his skin. As he pulled on his boots, he noticed they had been scrubbed clean of the dried, grey dirt that had adorned them all winter.

A flicker of hope sparked in the far reaches of his mind.

Scratching at his greying beard, he clunked out into the sitting area and found Mycroft curled up in front of the stone cold fireplace, his fur shaking as he tried to stay warm. John was glad he forced himself from his bed, feeling guilty for neglecting his cat. As soon as he got close, Mycroft started and looked up at him with grey-blue eyes.

“Mrow!” the cat complained, his ears falling flat against his head as he saw John.

“Ah kinn, laddie. Sorry,” the Scotsman replied, reaching down to scratch the cat's head. Mycroft resisted out of spite, then succumbed and pressed up into the proffered affection with a hearty purr.

After repairing his relationship with the cat and restarting the fire, John walked into the kitchen and grabbed the tin of oats.

Empty.

“Dammit.”

He settled for a spoonful of peanut butter and a cup of instant coffee. The two flavors struggled against one another, each leaving a film on the tops of his teeth that forced him to take a few swigs of Scotch to wash it away. The burn was his tithe, rolling down his throat like fire. He took a few more, and settled in his favorite chair by the fire. Mycroft jumped into his lap and settled quickly, his large body lolling this way and that as he fell into a deep slumber.

John looked through the window on the door and watched the icy rain sweep the plains, pulling the trees of the copse back and forth as the gusts wailed and the house shook. His eyes were glued to the trees, searching...searching.

A shadow moved amongst the birch trunks, there and then gone again as he blinked.

“I’ve rin wud,” he muttered to himself.

Then, he saw it again, and his mind was made up. Scooting out from beneath his sleeping cat, he grabbed the jacket by the door and pulled it on, flipping the collar up around his neck. He snatched a hat from the rack, then stuffed his pocket with a hank of rope and his knife.

John considered leaving a note, but he knew no one would come looking.

The scotch bottle sat on his table, calling to him. He stared, eyes tracing the clean lines of the glass, and swallowed around the knot in his throat. “Alrecht,” he nodded, then opened the liquor and tossed his head back. At least he could numb some of his pain before leaving.

The wind howled as he opened the door, pulling him out into it before he realized what was happening. He marveled at the black sky, having never seen such fury on the Highlands before. The tingle of the liquor in his blood made itself known by buckling his knees and dragging his vision, but he blinked and shook his head to clear the haze. Ahead of him, the forest was alive, swaying and bending trees seemingly connected like the hairs on the back of a giant animal. Fighting against the storm, he strode ever closer, his mind despondent and blank.

Entering the trees was like being enveloped in a gigantic shield as the wind and rain suddenly stopped their assault. The sound of the storm seemed captured by glass, distorted as if John was under water.

Perhaps he was.

A quick look around the trail and he found a suitable tree, one with a hefty branch bent at a right angle to the trunk, high enough off the ground to do the job. He pulled the rope from his pocket and tossed it over the branch, hanging from both ends briefly to test the strength of the wood. It held, and his lips curled into a private, resigned smile. He tied it off quickly and made a loop on the end with a slip knot. Stepping back, he admired his quick handiwork, then nodded and turned towards the dark path that led off into the wood.

“Ah dunnae kinn if yoo're thaur ur nae. Heel, Ah coods be crazy. but if ye ur in thaur, _please_. _Please_ lit me in. Ah cannae dae thes anymair,” he confessed, dropping to his knees. “ _Please._ ”

He swallowed, feeling the forest swirl around him, and shut his eyes. Tears seeped out of them, fat strands trailing down his hot cheeks. Clenching his fists against his thighs, he threw his head back and howled his despair into the trees until it was lost in the wind of the storm raging around the forest.

Behind him, the make-shift noose hung from the tree, beckoning the defeated man.

“Say it _again_ ,” a familiar voice tickled the shell of his ear.

No longer capable of fighting the shiver that fled up his spine, John whispered, “ _Please_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> "bide wi'me" = stay with me  
> "rin wud" = gone mad  
> "kinn" = know  
> "alrecht" = alright


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:  
> *Dubious consent? Sort of? Does being entranced by a magical fae count as not being capable of giving consent? Honestly, as the narrator, I can tell you that even if he wasn't entranced our Scotsman would 100% be all up on that sweet piece of ass that is Sherlock.
> 
> Also--please note the rating change. Smut lies below!
> 
> ***to skip the consent issue, stop reading when Sherlock says "Hamish, I love how you taste" and skip forward to the break followed with "Time passed."***
> 
> Sorry this is a few hours late! Was a bit behind this week.

A hand wrapped itself, possessive, around John’s throat. The long-nailed fingers pressed into the thin skin of his neck, tips resting on his pulse point. The scotsman let his eyes slide shut, praying to the God he’d lost faith in that this creature would have mercy on him. That whatever awaited him in the wood would be better than the misery he was attempting to flee.

All at once, the cacophony of the gale around the forest ceased, leaving the place eerily quiet save for the pounding of his own heart in his ears. John thought of Mycroft, settled in his chair next to the fire, purring contentedly. Not knowing that John was bargaining with his very life as he knelt on the forest floor, awaiting the judgment and sentencing of the orphic man behind him. Part of him knew he ought to feel something, _anything_ \--remorse, guilt, sadness--but instead he felt nothing, and he knew _that_ was worse.

“Stand, _mortal_ ,” the man commanded, and John’s eyes popped open as he felt himself drawn up to his feet as if on puppet strings. He was suspended by his shoulders, toes barely touching the ground beneath him. It was disorienting, and he bit his tongue against the slew of complaints threatening to spill from his mouth.

“Give me your name.”

John blinked, staring straight into the creature’s soulless, white eyes. “Whit will ye use it fur?” He vaguely remembered a tale told by an elder of the village about a young man who was seduced by the forest, taken up by it merely by disclosing his name. John had lived enough of his life to know better than to discount the tales told by an old beggar. The lines of that face had seen more than enough, and could very well hold some truth.

The pale faced man cocked his head to the side, eyes unblinking as he examined John. He looked over every inch of him, and the scotsman had the distinct feeling of being dissected, bit by bit. He shivered, thinking of his nightmare, and gulped down a whimper. His feet began to ache as he stretched his toes to the ground, still trying to keep some semblance of control. It was futile, and he knew it. He tried anyway.

“Hm,” his captor mused, the sound escaping his throat on the tails of a deep exhalation. “Nothing but _pleasure_ , I assure you,” he added with a smirk.

John was entranced by the way the man said the word _pleasure_ , replaying it over and over in his head like a record skipping. The tips of the man’s canines extended below his top lip, peeking out with the barest hint of threat. They were _sharp_. Perfect for biting the flesh of mortals, John reasoned.

_Like me._

Drawing up an eyebrow, John smiled back. He wasn't sure how to behave around this creature, so he considered false bravado as an option. “Fur ye? Ur fur me?” he asked, letting his feet relax as he gave up on trying to touch the ground.

Leaning towards him, the man hovered his mouth next to John's ear. The Scotsman attempted to push him away, but found his arms pinned to his sides as if clamped by vices. It was wholly unsettling, and though he longed to turn away from the creature imposing itself on him, he found himself trapped.

“ _For us both_ ,” the ethereal creature purred in John's ear. There was something about the way his voice wormed its way into John’s head. It felt as though it was untying his neurons, pulling apart the synapses and flooding his brain with nothing but the velvety, guttural whisper beckoning him forward. Every word held a million meanings as it coursed through the scotsman’s head, picking at his wounds and promising the healing he sorely needed. It tempted him to give in, to forget he ever was human in the first place. To join this man, this _creature_ of the wood.

A knot worked its way into his throat, causing him to cough. Swallowing around it, he pulled back just enough to look at the glassy-eyed man. “A trade? Giv me yoors first?” he suggested, hating the way his gaze traveled down the angular features of the man. “An’ lit me doon, woods ye?” He looked down at his feet, eyebrows hiking up his forehead with expectation.

Confusion flooded his captor’s face, his dark eyebrows knitting together as he narrowed his eyes and slowly glanced down at John’s feet. Raising his head back up, he asked, “Why?”

“It _hurts_.”

Another few blinks, then a wide, sharp-toothed grin broke across the man’s cheeks, a dramatic shift that startled John. “The name’s Sherlock, mortal.” His hungry eyes roved down John’s suspended form a final time, then he nodded once and stepped away, clasping his hands behind his back.

Without warning, John crumpled to the ground, his legs numb and disabled. His entire body tingled as he curled in on himself, willing the disorienting feeling to subside quickly. A wave of nausea passed through him, and he squeezed his eyes shut to stop the way the forest spun around him. Clutching his stomach with one hand, he punched the ground with the other as if he could force his body to comply through intimidation. So much for the false bravado.

Unamused, his body rebelled and deposited the contents of his stomach on the forest floor in front of him. He coughed and sputtered, eyes streaming and nose burning while snot ran down to mingle with the spittle collected on his bottom lip. Wiping with the back of his hand, he shuddered and opened his eyes to glare at his tormentor.

Sherlock was still grinning at him, crinkles fanning out from the corners of his eyes. Around him, the forest was blurred, the lines of the trees waving and blending together with the rest of the underbrush. As John blinked and looked around, the colors fragmented out like crystals, a kaleidoscope that slowly clicked into place. The temperature swung dramatically from sweltering to freezing, then back to the neutral, causing John to cycle between sweating and shivering. As the scenery rearranged itself, it changed into a dark, dirt-filled cave. Roots sprawled out from the roof of tunnel, poking every direction above their heads. The bizarre man seemed utterly pleased with himself as he gestured around the dim underground lair with outspread arms. Unimpressed, the scotsman fought back another wave of nausea with a full body shudder, cursing his companion for yanking him from place to place.

Once he felt his stomach settle, John stood, pressing the heels of his hands into the small of his back, and stretched. Several vertebrae popped as he arched, and he felt his muscles loosen after being held captive for too long by Sherlock’s magic. His companion’s countenance seemed drastically changed, as he now pranced around like a proud puppy showing off the filthy abode. At the end of the tunnel was an enlarged area decorated with dead and dying branches and flowers, illuminated by dripping yellow candles that flickered and cast long dancing shadows on the ceiling. Water dropped erratically from the ceiling, collecting in the middle of the room in a deep puddle. The entire dwelling was full of muck and dirty water. It was _disgusting_.

“So?” Sherlock asked as he returned to peer in John’s face. “Your turn, mortal,” he reminded, tapping the end of his long, pale finger on the scotsman’s nose. A glare was all he received in return. “A _trade_ ,” he insisted, the smile vanishing from his face.

Deep in the center of John’s mind, he registered the unspoken threat facing him as the white-eyed man in front of him narrowed his eyes, his jaw clenching, pulling his cheekbones taut. He glanced down at Sherlock’s hands and noticed his fingers twitching at his sides in annoyance. Scratching at his beard, John diverted the question. “Whit ur ye?”

Sherlock resembled a marble statue as he stood perfectly still but for the spasms in his fingers. “You know what I am. Now, your name, please. I…,” he paused, his stare somehow intensifying. “ _Desire_ it.” A pointed, pink tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, drawing it under his sharp canines slowly.

Transfixed, John opened his mouth. The creature leaned in, towering over him, until their faces were barely centimeters apart. Somehow despite the increasing fog enveloping his thoughts, John noted that Sherlock didn’t breathe. He mirrored the man, and though the burning in his lungs felt familiar and _wrong_ , he again found himself ignoring the pain.

“ _Breathe,”_ Sherlock whispered as he wrapped his large hands around John’s shoulders, drawing their bodies close together. John felt the presence of the man’s form wrapping around his, firm but lacking any warmth. It was unsettling, and he _wanted_ it.

 _Nae!_ _Dunna give in!_

Gasping, he replied, “Hamish!”

Sherlock paused, cocking his head to the side and nosing into John’s beard. The man felt a smile against his neck as Sherlock continued nuzzling him, clearly pleased with his admission. John returned the smile, pulling his arms around the lithe form. He dared not think about his lie, for he knew Sherlock possessed the ability to know his thoughts. Despite the war in his mind, he knew one thing was certain--he needed an escape route.

Just in case.

* * *

Time passed.

How much, John wasn’t sure. But it passed, and it continued passing. He drifted from moment to moment, often feeling as if he’d just woken up. Memories were murky, odd collections of shadows and statements.

_“Hamish, eat this.”_

_“Follow me, mortal. I must show you something.”_

_“Dance for me, my love.”_

_“Let me_ **_have_ ** _you.”_

Sometimes, John blinked and found himself strapped to a tree trunk or suspended from its branches by his feet. He would blink again and choke back a yell of surprise until the pain from the invisible ropes biting into his skin was too much. He whimpered, he moaned. Nearby, Sherlock watched, milky eyes narrowed and unblinking.

“It hurts, Sherlock!” John would finally shout, the anger at his companion’s disinterest clearing the haze from his mind. He felt as if he was breaking the surface of the water, gasping for air as the rage and pain settled in his joints.

“ _Does it?_ ” the creature asked, drawing out the words. The only part of him that moved was his mouth, the rest of him frozen.

John cursed, writhing and wriggling in an attempt to free himself. “Lit me go!” he demanded. “Lit me go, ur I’ll leave ye.”

They both knew it was a lie, but Sherlock flicked his finger anyway.

The scotsman, able to breathe fully again, shut his eyes for a moment. What was he doing here? _How did he get here_? There was a tug in his chest and his stomach dropped out as he fought to remember what he was missing. Something was wrong, but--

John blinked and looked around him, disoriented and confused. The sunlight had gone out, the trees had disappeared, and--

“Hamish, I _love_ how you taste,” Sherlock crooned, licking his way down the man’s nude stomach. He paused to press kisses to John’s hipbone, his long-fingered hands sweeping up and down his thighs while kneading his muscles.

They were back in Sherlock’s underground lair, laying on the collection of hay filled pillows he--no, _they_ \--used as a bed. The lanky man was nestled between John’s thighs, his chest pressed against the scotsman’s pelvis while he continued peppering his skin with suckling kisses and sharp-toothed nips. As his nose dragged through John’s wiry hair at the base of his abdomen, Sherlock made a show of inhaling the man’s scent. As he opened his mouth to exhale, breath hot and damp, he let it hang open while he looked up through his long dark lashes.

A long whine escaped John’s lips as he stared down his chest at Sherlock, ivory skin gleaming in the flickering candlelight. “Och aye, Sherlock,” he moaned, surprised at how filled with need his own voice was. A wicked grin was the response as the man between his legs dragged his silky smooth hands down to hook under John’s knees, lifting them up onto Sherlock’s shoulders. John fought to keep himself up on his elbows-- _he needed to watch_. It was his favorite part, seeing the dark mop of curls descend upon his cock, bouncing as his lover’s head bobbed up and down his length.

 **“Lay back,** ” Sherlock commanded, yanking hard on the backs of John’s knees. “We’re doing something... _different_ today,” he purred. John dropped down as instructed, then brought his hands down to tangle in Sherlock’s hair.

That is, until a courageous, hot, _wet_ tongue prodded below his testicles, seeking the tight ring of muscle between his arse cheeks.

“ ** _Fuck_**!”

His hands flew up to his face, heels digging into his eyes as the tongue licked boldly at him, teasing and tasting. Sherlock moaned as he pushed deeper, his nose tucked in beneath John’s testicles and his forehead rubbing against the base of his cock. The ministrations continued, taking John apart piece by piece until he was shouting and cursing, body writhing on the floor of the dirt filled cave while hot white streams pulsed all over his stomach and chest. It lasted _forever_ , cresting and falling over, and _over_ , and **_over_ ** until the man was begging for rest.

The curls between his legs shook and two fingers joined the tongue inside him, petting his prostate and pulling even more pleasure from his wrung out body. He convulsed, his voice hoarse from moaning Sherlock’s name, and bucked his hips forward with renewed vigor. Sherlock wrapped his lips around the tip of John’s cock and let him thrust up into his mouth, fingers relentless as the man lost control yet again.

“Ah cannae...ah cannae…,” John gasped when the stars cleared from his vision. “Please, _Sherlock_ ,” he begged, hands tugging on the man’s curls to pull him up for a salacious kiss. As their tongues tangled, the taste of his own body filling his mouth, John reached down between Sherlock’s legs. As his hand wrapped around the man’s pulsing cock, he was rewarded with a hiss, followed by a sharp bite on his earlobe. He would have yelped in pain had he not been so utterly exhausted.

“ _We’re not done yet_ , **mortal** ,” the creature warned, his voice husky. “ _Get on your hands and knees._ ”

* * *

Time passed.

John didn't know how much.

Most days, he found that he didn't seem to care.

But there were _some_ mornings when he awoke, thoughts sluggish as the sleep cleared from his mind and he wiped the crust from the corners of his eyes when something seemed… _off_. There were _some_ mornings when he opened his eyes and saw rolling hills and the slow drift of cattle across a field. _Some_ mornings when a small, wooden cabin was stuck at the edge of his vision and a fluffy grey tail plodded its way towards him.

The moment Sherlock opened his clouded eyes, murmuring into the crook of John's neck while shoving a leg between his thighs, though, it was gone.

Gone like the time, like his real name, and the way he arrived in this mystical land.

 _Just gone_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will wrap up this story! Don't worry about Mycroft--all will be well and he will definitely get fed soon!


	5. Chapter 5

John’s thoughts barely broke the surface of his consciousness most days. His body was not his own, merely at the whim of the creature who had entranced him. Occasionally he would look at the pale-skinned man and see glimpses of their time together, running together like chalk in the rain. Other times he merely complied, too broken to try to fight it.

Every time Sherlock called him Hamish, John fought back his blinks of surprise. He felt tethered to this world, to _this_ man by _this_ name, though somewhere deep in his lungs he knew it wasn’t complete possession. It was merely agreeing to the arrangement, going along with it because he didn’t know what else to do. He felt like a cat, seeing the benefits of his master and determining they outweighed the risks. When his thoughts could connect enough to remind him of this reality, he felt a spark of power low in his belly.

There was, of course, the matter of his name. His _real_ name. It seemed lost to him, like a word trapped on the tip of his tongue, stuck behind his teeth in the most irritating way. He played with it, rolling different sounds around in his mouth when he knew Sherlock wasn’t watching, hoping something might _feel_ right. As he made progress, he was inevitably interrupted, so he kept track by tearing the edge of his tee.

On the day he made it to ten tears, something inside him clicked.

It was _there_ , **_right there_** , inside him.

_John._

He dared not speak it aloud as he lay in bed with his lover, who was resting his head on John’s belly, tracing his long, nimble fingers through the coarse hairs leading down to his groin.

“You _can’t_ leave me,” Sherlock murmured, turning his face to kiss John’s sensitive skin. “You _won’t_ leave me,” he added, nipping gently. “Even if you could, you wouldn’t. What do you have to go back to? _That wasn’t a life_.”

Hearing about his time before the wood cleared the haze in John’s head enough that he realized he needed to remember this name of his before Sherlock overtook him again. Keeping one hand embedded in the head of curls in his lap, he used the other to draw his name in the dirt floor of their cave near the wall so it wouldn’t be disturbed.

. - - -   - - - . . . .   - .

“Ah willnae lae,” John lied.

And then he was dragged beneath the surface again.

* * *

Every day, he read the code he left himself, taking care not to focus on it for too long. Often, he waited for Sherlock to be asleep, so it was less likely the creature would know his thoughts.

John _._

_John._

**_John._ **

It gave him strength, it gave him _purpose_. There was another person beneath this false front, this facade that Sherlock had molded into his own. He was a man with a life, not just a plaything for this creature of the wood. Anger bubbled in his chest each day he repeated his name to himself.

John Watson belonged to no one but himself, and as time passed he remembered it.

And then, one day, the fog lifted entirely and the damp, dirt filled cave filled with candles and tree roots came into focus. John blinked, shocked at the vibrancy around him. The light danced along the tunnel walls, bright yellow-gold that flickered and highlighted the sparkle of the rocks tucked into the earth around him. There was a distant dripping down the far end of the tunnel that echoed around the chamber, around his very _mind_ as he suddenly became aware of it.

_Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip--_

The skin wrapped around his bones and sinewy, lean muscles felt tight, caked with the grime of months living underground. As his senses rebounded, freed from the thick, wet blanket of deprivation Sherlock had wrapped around them, everything seemed too loud, too bright, _too much_. He spun around in the middle of the cave, eyes seeking something to ground himself on before his mind lost the tenuous hold it had on his sanity as realization came pouring over him.

He was trapped. Not only was he trapped, but the Fae of legend, the whispers told by the townspeople, were real, and _cruel_.

Looking down at his body, he fought back the sting in his eyes. He had lost a significant amount of weight while living with Sherlock. He tried to remember the last time he ate, and found himself coming up short. Shutting his eyes, he focused.

 _Ah hae tae lae._ **_Noo_** _._

“ _You will not_ ,” he heard from the corner of the cave. Sherlock’s rich baritone filled the room, clawing its way into his chest and shaking his core.

“Thes is nae whit Ah wanted,” John argued, bringing up his hands in defense. “Ye tricked me!” he added, the hot pit of rage in his stomach churning.

“ _You_ came to _me_. Over, and _over_ , and **_over_** ,” Sherlock reminded, his head cocked to the side. He stalked closer to John, white eyes unblinking as he watched the man.

Backing up, John shook his head slowly. “Mebbe, but noo, aam leavin’ ye. An, Ah willnae come back thes time.”

The fae narrowed his eyes, continuing his gradual walk towards the man. “You begged me. You pleaded with me to take you. This is the thanks I get?!” he growled, his face contorted in a scowl. “I took care of you. I gave you pleasure and took you away from the empty void that _was_ your life. **I saved you!** ” he insisted, pale skin of his throat pinking as he shouted.

“Nae,” John whispered. “Ye waur killin’ me.”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open and he froze as his mind worked. “I don’t understand,” he finally admitted. “I... _I told you to breathe_.”

Tendrils of cool air licked at John’s exposed skin from the tunnel behind him, beckoning him to safety. He dragged his feet in the dirt, feeling the rise of the hill behind him at his heels. “Sherlock, humans need mair than jist air,” he explained, anger twisting in his stomach into something more painful, something more _dangerous_. An ache rose high in his throat, making it difficult to swallow. He fought the feeling, knowing what it was but refusing to name it. “Ah hae tae go. Aam...aam sorry.”

The white-eyed man in the cave blinked once, then rose a single finger. “ _Hamish_ ,” he began, voice twisting around the word like a python. “Stay with me.” There was something different about the way he said it, something sinister and enticing about his voice. John felt a tug on his shoulders, plucking him forward into the cave again. His feet seemed drawn like magnets, dragging across the dirt floor as the familiar fog drifted into his thoughts. Alarms rang in his head, though they were distant and unconvincing. “ _Hamish_ ,” Sherlock said again, curling his finger to beckon John closer. “Hamish,” he murmured, a smirk gracing his Cupid's bow lips. “Stay with me. This is your home now.”

John was captivated, and most of him was ready to give in. Most of him wanted to return to the creature’s arms, wanted to return to his bed. He knew that Sherlock spoke the truth before--his life had been a void, lacking any depth or purpose aside from…

Aside from Mycroft. The dark grey, portly cat appeared in his mind, hopping towards him across the highland plains. Meowing a greeting for John, welcoming him home and reminding him of his growling stomach.

The fog dissipated, and John stopped moving towards the Fae. “Nae,” he argued, shaking his head. “Mah name isnae Hamish, an' thes is nae mah home. Goodbye, Sherlock.”

Before his lover could reply, the Scotsman turned on his heels and fled, feet pounding the dirt as he scrabbled out of the cave. Behind him, he heard the thunderous shouting from Sherlock, but he focused on his own breath and the blood throbbing in his ears instead.

Emerging from the tunnel, he shielded his eyes from the midday sun and spun around, trying to get his bearings. He was in a part of the forest that he didn't recognize, and he considered the possibility that he had perhaps entered another realm entirely. Then, in the distance, he saw a circle of stones, and without a second thought, he sprinted towards it and leapt into the middle of it.

The forest spun around him, the trees moving so quickly that the colors bled together until he had to shut his eyes lest he get dizzy. John sunk to his knees and lowered his forehead to the ground.

“ _Tak' me haem,_ ” he whispered, and his heart ached with the sincerity of it.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days passed--John couldn't tell, as the moment felt timeless and yet instantaneous. The world stopped spinning, the trees stood still once more, and above him, he heard the call of a crow.

Raising his head slowly, he peeked out from under his bangs and released the breath held fast in his lungs. In front of him lay the fields of his farm, and not more than 100 metres away was his small, ramshackle cabin. Lifting his head, he craned around to look behind him, only to see the forest still standing there, as ominous and dark as it ever had been.

Fearful he might be sucked back into it, he looked back towards his house, and smiled.

Two black tufted ears were bouncing through the tall grass towards him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate each and every one of you for spending time to read this story! I have loved working on it, enjoying this very alternative type of AU for my two beloved Baker street boys. It's been a fun foray into some psychological horror as a genre. Please take time to leave me some feedback in the comments, or message me on Tumblr @Arcwin1. Thanks again!


	6. Artwork by Beta_Jawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beta_Jawn, who helps me with all of my writing, made these beautiful pieces to accompany this story! I love them so much! :D Enjoy!
> 
> ##NSFW!!!##

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/47107548991/in/dateposted-public/)   
  
  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/47107549011/in/dateposted-public/)


	7. Artwork: Mycroft the Cat!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look!! It's Mycroft!! :D

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/32165694737/in/dateposted-public/)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking time to read! I appreciate all kudos and comments. Find me on tumblr @Arcwin1.


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